When is poetry bad? Ben Lerner’s The Hatred of Poetry

lerner-1As regular readers will recall, I bought this book on spec before Christmas from a wily book catalogue. Reading it – it is a long essay on why people hate poetry – is an unfolding sequence of stimulants, a nuggetty book about what poetry is and does, from the perspective of those who hate it. Lerner, as a practising poet and novelist, teaches the stuff, so he does not hate it. But he is frequently addressed by those who do, so his accumulation of encounters produced this book.

‘What kind of art assumes the dislike of its audience and what kind of artist aligns herself with that dislike?’

Does poetry seem as though it expects to be disliked? It all depends on the company it keeps, I think. Very few harassed parents running busy households will welcome the prospect of a home-made poem flourished at them by an adolescent child (who ought to be revising for exams), when they don’t read poetry themselves, could not get on with it at school (if they were ever shown any), and don’t think that it bodes well for gainful adult employment. The poet as waster is a familiar character in novels of the misunderstood.

Lerner points out that Plato considered poetry to be both useless and corrupting: at once powerless and dangerous. As a political tool, poetry is definitely dangerous and hopelessly irrelevant, to particular sectors of society. It’s a ceremonial thing to be read at an inauguration, and an easy read on the Tube in between interminable stops. It’s not the stuff of daily tabloid nourishment, or something we hear read aloud as a matter of course in between TV programmes. Poetry is special, not normal, for most of the British population; half-remembered on Remembrance Sunday, but otherwise not part of their daily lives.

Lerner 2.jpgUnderstanding about good and bad poetry is also a puzzle. ‘It is much harder to agree on what constitutes a successful poem when we see it than it is to agree that we’re in the presence of an appalling one.’ Bad poetry is easily spotted, Lerner thinks, and spends a useful section in this book explaining why William McGonagall was a bad poet. The very recent announcement of a poem to celebrate the forthcoming Presidential inauguration proves Lerner’s point. That poem is of a McGonagall order of dreadfulness, because of the office it was intended to assume, as well as its painful obliviousness to poetic nuance or art. It uses Victorian Scottish rumty-tumty rhythms and rhymes that wave flags at you to be noticed: it has a pleased and terrible eagerness to display all the rhymes the poet found.

Lerner does admit that bad poets and their poems have a purpose.

‘Truly horrible poets unwittingly provide a glimmer of virtual possibility via the extremity of their failure; avant garde poets hate poems for remaining poems instead of becoming bombs; and nostalgists hate poems for failing to do what they, wrongly, vaguely, claim poetry once was or did’.

This is more like it. Lerner acknowledges that poetry has many audiences. The beyond-bad Inaugural poem will have a pleased reception, and the poet will be glad. This will not excuse its badness, but it will make some people happy, and perhaps encourage others not to hate poetry any more. Once you’ve found your way into poetry, you learn what you like and dislike: that’s good if it dispels a hatred of poetry. Dangerous poetry that corrupts is not necessarily bad for prosodic reasons, because it has to reach a technical level of skill to work its persuasion. Bad poetry, like the Inaugural poem, is unlikely to corrupt because its inadequacies and its inability to tackle prosodic challenges are easily spotted. I think there’s a metaphor there.

Ben Lerner, The Hatred of Poetry (2016, Fitzcarraldo Editions), ISBN 978 1 910695 15 9

 

Now posting on Vulpes Libris: Jim Carruth’s Killochries

KillochriesIt’s Poetry Week for Vulpes Libris, so how happy was I that I had a beautiful new poem about mucking out the byre to write about. Jim Carruth’s Killochries is simply lovely to read, taking no more than an evening, maybe even a longish train commute. Short lines, fine words, the story of a messed-up man sent by his mum to a relative’s hill farm to work there for a year and sort himself out.

If you like fox observation, the strong lines of a hill in snow, the struggle to get lambs feeding, or the anger of a grumpy bullock, get thee to Freight Books and order your slice of farming life now.

‘The Plaint of the Middlebrow Novelist’

Phoebe Fenwick Gaye sometime in the 1920s, reused with thanks to The Library Time Machine
Phoebe Fenwick Gaye photographed sometime in the 1920s after publication of her first novel, reused with thanks to The Library Time Machine

Here’s a short comic poem to brighten your day. Written by the otherwise totally forgotten actress and novelist * Phoebe Fenwick Gaye and published (first? goodness knows) in 1937 in the feminist and progressive weekly magazine Time and Tide, this poem is valuable evidence of the cultural squabble that we in the trade call The Battle of the Brows.

Here, the middlebrow corner doesn’t so much fight back as bare all. Oh, the misery of successful and lucrative middlebrow trappings in interwar British literary circles, when all they really wanted was cultural status. Much like every aspiring writer then and since. What is it about cultural accolades that overpower the practical ability to pay the bills? Pride, sinful pride …..

 

‘The Plaint of the Middlebrow Novelist’

Phoebe Fenwick Gaye

 

I’ve written my dozen of novels

I’ve signed autographs by the score

(and my portrait in oils and my photo at Foyles)

And I’ve spoken at Harrods at four;

The money is never a problem

I sell like the proverbial hot cake;

And the libraries fight for each word that I write,

Yet I have this incurable ache: –

 

Refrain

I wanna be known as a Highbrow.

I want my prestige to go up;

I don’t want romance – I want Mr Gollancz

– And a par. in the dear old Lit. Sup.

To hell with my library public;

To hell with a cheaper edition;

A sentence or two in a weekly review

Remains my unswerving ambition.

OH! –

I wanna turn into a Classic

– I’m as good as the next on the list –

I want some indication, from the Statesman and Nation

That I – as an author – exist.

To hell with the Book of the Month club;

And my serial rights in Cathay –

I wanna be known as a Highbrow

And I don’t care what Hutchinson’s say!

 

Retrieved with grateful thanks from Anthony Lejeune (ed.) Time and Tide Anthology (London: Andre Deutsch, 1956), 143.

  • Reading Catherine Clay’s rather good study of the literary friendships of Vera Brittain, Winifred Holtby, Storm Jameson, Stella Benson, Naomi Mitchison, and other professional women writers in the Time and Tide circle, I find that Phoebe Fenwick Gaye was an assistant editor for Time and Tide, working under Holtby, and probably wrote essays for it as well.